The best we domesticated schmucks usually manage is bland small talk at the swings, mediocre coffee at ‘mummy group’ and gruelling re-runs of Octonauts.

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But today, with the sun shining and nary a cloud in the sky, that dynamic has very much flipped on its head.

To wit: LOL, it sucks to be you, wage slave.

Goals (Picture: Getty)

First thing this morning, as you were crammed into that sweltering capsule of stench and resentment, I was fixing Toby’s Marmite on toast with a certain elan, swagger even; a spring in my spread, if you will.

The radio was blasting feel-good hits, several notches louder than was strictly necessary.

Our kitchen window was open, enticing a joyous cacophony of birdsong into the flat, affirming – yes lads – that today is, without doubt, going to be an absolute bloody scorcher.

Wait, one sec; is that your desk phone I hear?

You don’t wanna miss that bollocking from the Telford office!

I’ll wait.

(Picture: Getty)

Cool, where were we?

Oh yeah, so I’m stuffing my tote bag with as much fun as it can handle – frisbee, bucket and spade, football.

At the sandpit, hanging out with a gripe of young mums – yes, I just invented a collective noun – everyone agrees having sod-all to do but scoff Cornettos in the company of happy children is the absolute tits.

You guys’ll probably catch some rays too, I guess, through the window of Pret or whatever.

And I’m genuinely sorry that bitch who sits across from you is hogging the air conditioning controller again.

But even as you accomplish stuff today, maybe, like earning a crust and (crucially) paying enough tax to subsidise my boy’s free nursery place next year (cheers for that), don’t begrudge us.

Days like these are among the few perks we weary, vomit-stained broodmares are entitled to.